Montemolín

The castle keep opens at ten, but the bar opposite has been serving coffee since six. That's Montemolín: a village where medieval stone and the clatter of everyday life share the same narrow streets, 615 metres above sea level on the southern edge of Extremadura's sierra.

British drivers bombing down the A-66 between Seville and Mérida usually flash past the turning. Ten minutes later they could be standing where Castilian knights once watched the road to Portugal, wondering why nobody told them the place existed. Only sixty-odd TripAdvisor reviews exist in English; the car park behind the Ermita de Nuestra Señora de la Granada rarely holds more than six cars.

A Keep That Still Commands the Valley

The 12th-century fortress isn't pretty. Its sandstone walls have slumped, the battlements gape, and boot-scraping thistles grow where archers once stood. Yet the keep staircase—new metal grafted onto Romanesque stone—delivers the promised panorama: a carpet of dehesa oak running south to the Guadiana, the white dots of neighbouring villages, and on clear winter days the blue ridge of the Sierra Morena 80 km away. Pick up the key from the bakery on Plaza Mayor if the iron gate is locked; they close for lunch at 14:00 sharp and won't reopen until the bread comes out at 17:00.

Downhill, the parish church of Nuestra Señora de la Consolación does its best to compete, but the building that holds the eye is the Casa de los Golfines de Abajo on Calle San Blas. Sixteenth-century coats of arms bulge from its façade like heraldic tumours, proof that even this remote hilltop once traded wool and wine with Flanders. Inside, the tourist office keeps eccentric hours—sometimes morning, sometimes afternoon—so regard any open door as a minor miracle.

Living With the Dehesa

Walk south along the signed path from the castle and tarmac gives way to red earth within five minutes. Holm oaks spaced twenty metres apart throw pools of shade over grass still green in May; Iberian pigs snuffle acorns, indifferent to passing hikers. This is the dehesa, an ecosystem manufactured by medieval shepherds and still managed with the patience of a bonsai master. Spring brings nightingales; October brings wild mushrooms and the smell of wood-smoke from stone huts where modern swineherds brew coffee exactly like their grandparents.

The three-hour circuit to the Convento de Tentudía is the obvious walk: follow the GR-134 waymarks, climb 300 m through rosemary and rockrose, arrive at a thirteenth-century Franciscan monastery that looks down on two provinces. The café inside sells cold beer and lukewarm tortilla, which tastes better at 800 metres than it has any right to. If that sounds too strenuous, drive the winding EX-104 instead; the views are almost as good and you'll still deserve the beer.

What Arrives on the Plate

British expectations of Spanish village food—paella, seafood, tapas crawling with prawns—won't be met. Montemolín cooks what the dehesa produces: pork in every permutation, goat cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves, breadcrumbs fried with garlic and grapes when the harvest is good. Order migas at Bar Consolación on Plaza Mayor and you get a cast-iron pan of exactly that, plus a fried egg on top because why not. The house red comes from nearby Tierra de Barros, costs €2.50 a glass, and behaves like a friendly Rioja that forgot its tie.

For picnic supplies, the little supermarket on Calle Doctor Fleming stocks Torta del Casar, the local sheep cheese that liquefies inside its rind. Ask for a quarter-wheel; staff will spoon it into a plastic tub because the real thing is too runny for cling film. Pair it with a loaf of pan campero and you'll understand why Extremaduran shepherds never bothered inventing cheddar.

When the Village Lets Its Hair Down

Mid-August turns the placid streets into a fairground. The fiestas patronales honour the Virgin of Consolation with brass bands that rehearse for weeks, competing decibel counts that would shame Glastonbury. Brits who book the charmingly named Hostal Montemolín should bring earplugs or join in; dancing in the square starts after the bull-running at midnight and finishes when the bread vans arrive. Accommodation doubles in price for three nights, then halves again the moment the brass band catches its collective breath.

Easter is quieter but more intense. Hooded penitents pace the cobbles to drumbeats that echo off stone like slowed-down heartbeats; the air smells of beeswax and orange blossom. Visitors are welcome, photography is not. Put the phone away and you might notice how the procession route narrows outside the old Jewish quarter, a medieval traffic-calming measure that still works.

Getting Here, Staying Awake

The village sits 15 minutes off the Seville–Mérida motorway, far enough to feel remote but close enough for a lunch stop. Buses from Badajoz or Zafra arrive twice daily except Sunday, when the service gives up entirely. Without wheels you'll rely on the kindness of residents: think hitch-hiking to the nearest station at Monesterio, 18 km away, where trains to Madrid run twice a day and always leave on time.

Accommodation is limited to the aforementioned hostal (clean, €45 double, walls like papier-mâché) and two rural houses that sleep six and require a two-night minimum. Booking ahead is essential at weekends; mid-week you can turn up and whistle. Either way, bring cash—the only ATM broke in 2022 and hasn't been mended yet.

The Bottom Line

Montemolín won't change your life. It offers a castle, a couple of decent walks, cheese that dribbles down your wrist and a night sky so dark you can read Orion's copyright notice. Come if you like your Spain slow, your streets empty after ten, your conversation translated by the barman. Leave if you need souvenir shops, yoga retreats or a choice of three restaurants. The motorway back to the twenty-first century is only fifteen minutes away, but the climb to the keep takes longer going down than coming up; Extremadura has a habit of doing that.